


White Lies Over White Nights

by meirencollector



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Hot Mess Adrien Agreste, Hot Mess Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Post-Reveal Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Pre-Relationship, Revelations, Snowed In, Truth or Drink, all sides of the lovesquare, and they were ROOMMATES, this is just an elaborate ploy to write every side of the lovesquare into a single story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28418970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meirencollector/pseuds/meirencollector
Summary: “Tell me, Marinette. The other boy, is it me?"There’s something about the way he says it. The way his lips move. The way his eyes glaze at her. The way he looks at her as if she hung the moon and stars. The way there’s a warm glow when he's drawing close to touch. Even in this snowstorm, he was a ray of sunshine, and she was a sunburn.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 28
Kudos: 249
Collections: December 2020 - Advent Calendar





	White Lies Over White Nights

Honesty is overrated. 

_It’s subversive, even,_ Marinette thinks.

Many would perhaps go to the lengths of detesting it. People don’t want an opinion unencumbered by sensitivity, half-heartedness, or timidity — no, what most really want is a gentle white lie. They don’t want to be told the truth. Rather, what one really desires is a version of the truth that is easily digestible, a smooth to swallow pretense, like how the soft amber color of whiskey belies the harsh taste as it simmers in the throat.

But in truth, the whiskey burns on the way down, and she’s left to splutter like a child. 

As children, honesty was drawn out of the mouth as easily as breathing — their ignorance was bliss, those who hadn’t yet learned the subtleties and nuanced intricacies of social interaction, merely saying what’s on their minds. If she wasn’t happy with a certain situation, she would go tell. If she didn’t like someone, she would just say it. It was only with the passing of time that she learned that in many circumstances, it wasn’t always best to speak one’s mind. 

It was better to drink in the white noise of it all, hoping that the wanted truths would lie at the bottom of the glass and then the bottom of the bottle and then the next bottle and to the next. The night would drag on. Fewer and fewer words would be exchanged. And the words spoken would be slurred and senseless.

For a long time she believed that one would much rather lie or, at the very least, tell hollow half-truths to keep a bond intact. For she knows so well, the _truth_ — is deeply dangerous, and the most subversive disguise of them all. 

Marinette flips over the box to read the instructions for the umpteenth time, her inner monologue landing deaf on her own ears, bluebell eyes sending a glare. “You’re _crazy._ ”

“I definitely am,” he says without missing a beat, plopping down on the couch as the glasses and bottle clink in his hands, “for you.”

Screw her thoughts. 

She waves the box in his face indignantly, the thudding sound loud as the cards shuffle and shift inside, the words _‘Truth or Drink: The Game’_ in block letters proudly displayed on its front. “You could’ve bought us the newest expansion pack for Cards Against Humanity, but no, you got us something whack and straight out of Kickstarter! This is way overpriced for these pieces of paper.”

Adrien tuts, settling the glasses and bottle on the coffee table beside them. “You’re being too dramatic about this. I just got it so there wouldn’t be any complaints about some machine dysfunction or a dumb technicality you’d usually pull out of thin air.” He shudders dramatically. “I’ll probably never play Monopoly against you ever again.”

“But you really cheated with the terminal!” Marinette accuses, “You always win when we play the terminal version, I knew we should have never dropped the paper money one.”

“The paper money one is a mess,” Adrien counters, “Get with the times, the new one has credit cards and the terminal makes cute and funny noises when I click the buttons.”

“Yeah, because you sure as hell clicked too many buttons for yourself,” she pushes the box against his chest, “There’s no way you could’ve gotten thirty million at that point.” Marinette huffs, recalling the game. “Sneaky cat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snorts, taking the box in his hands. “You’re just mad I hogged the reds and greens.”

“Well, I hogged the national parks and you’re telling me _I’m_ in debt?” 

“That’s what you do when you invest without enough assets to begin with,” he shrugs. “I guess it just wasn't your lucky day, m’lady.”

“I literally embody luck,” she crosses her arms in annoyance, but fails to intimidate as the oversized sleeves droop into endearing sweater paws. “What’s _your_ excuse?”

“I have you.” 

His answer comes with no hesitation, his green eyes meeting her blues for a brief second, before flitting away to the now-opened box. He continues taking out the cards. “There’s no way I could lose.” 

Marinette stills, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. 

“That’s…. that’s unfair,” she mutters lowly, forcing her thoughts to focus on the idea of pawning her remaining properties to evade bankruptcy next time. Because she’d rather not think about anything else. “Next week, we’re going back to Ultimate Mecha Strike.”

He shuffles the cards. “Deal. But if you really look at it, this works great cause we’re snowed in anyway. Game saves us from boredom. Drinks keep us warm. It’s definitely a win-win—What are you doing, Mari? Put down the shot glass, the game hasn’t even started yet.”

He quickly snatches the glass from her hand, and Marinette lets out a sulky whine. “I was going to run a new mini-game of my own, Adrien. It’s called “Every-time-I’m-moody-I-take-a-drink.”

The blond raises an eyebrow. “That game already exists. It's called alcoholism.”

“... I’ll have to remind you that I have excellent tolerance.”

“And I don’t?” he laughs. “So then what’s holding you back,” mouth curving into a kittenish grin, “Surely the bug isn’t afraid to get crushed by the cat?”

Marinette bites her lip, and their eyes lock for a moment over the sound of riffling cards. 

It’s just a fleeting glance, but she notices the way his eyebrows raise a centimetre or two, lined with something between worry and ease; and his eyes, his _eyes_ twinkling in amusement as if he knew something she didn’t. And now she _had_ to know. 

“I’d like to see you try,” she scoffs. “How does one lose here?” Marinette asks, before adding a quick, “Which isn’t happening to me, obviously.”

Adrien hums, setting the deck of cards in between them. “Glad you're now on board. It wouldn’t be fun if we just drank our way winning through the night, so I’m setting a rule that no one can drink thrice in a row.” He grins. “Winner takes one extra arrondissement from the other on the next patrol, and gets no dishwashing duty for the week.”

She purses her lips. “You _do_ realize we’re holding a New Year’s get-together in a few days?”

He wiggles his brows. “Exactly.”

“Oh, it’s _so_ on,” she laughs, cracking her knuckles playfully. “Just remember not to spill anything on the couch.”

Adrien winces. “Right.” He ponders over it for a second, “Okay, the player immediately loses if the couch is damaged in any way, because the ‘owners’ absolutely _loathe_ the idea of moving it up and down the stairs for cleaning and repairs.”

“If only the ‘owners’ would stop being sentimental and buy a new one instead,” Marinette tuts, shaking her head. “Idiots.”

“Definitely.” Adrien chuckles, and he starts to pour the liquor into the cold glasses. She listens to the gentle clinking of the ice cubes, breathing in the warm fragrance that smelled bittersweet. And then she hears his voice, words drawn to a whisper, “But we wouldn’t have them any other way, would we?”

Marinette shakes her head, watching the amber rise to the brim. “Never.”

_**Two years ago** _

“Never,” she huffs breathlessly, slumping on the seat. “We’re never doing this again.”

Adrien nods, before falling onto the couch as soon as the words leave her mouth. He was vaguely aware of a stinging in his leg. “Why… why is it so heavy?”

Marinette grimaces. “Should’ve known why it was so cheap. I can’t feel my arms.”

“The ‘80% off winter sale’ probably was too good to be true,” he shakes his head. “It’s amazing how we got it up here. Do you work out or something?” 

“I- uh, I lift rolls of fabric and… stuff?” she coughs awkwardly. “Though I could say the same about you, do you work out or something?”

He blinks. “... Or something.”

A snort comes out, and Marinette playfully nudges his side. “I was just asking out of courtesy by the way, I know you’re built like a twig.”

“Oh,” he turns to face her, “And how would you know?” The girl’s cheeks start to taint with pink, and he gasps in a dramatic fashion, “Mari, have you been secretly checking me out?” The blond puts a palm over his chest and sighs, “Marinette Dupain-Cheng thinks I’m hot. I feel like I just accomplished something great in life.”

She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say anything, you strung up the entire thought all by yourself.” Marinette scoots closer, and pokes her finger into his stomach with every word, “This-is-a-sorry-excuse-of-a-muscle,” she jeers, “and it's-just-not–”

Before she could say anything else, Adrien clasps her wrist, with brows raised and a mischievous grin, “You know what we say about tickling...”

Marinette pales. “W-wait, Adrien. That wasn’t exactly a tickle, I was just–”

Her words bubble into giggles as his fingers brush the sides of her waist, her breaths coming in quick gasps between laughter and soon tears gather in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Confident that he’d already won, Adrien lets his guard down and Marinette rashly jumps at the opportunity, yanking his arms forward to lose his balance — and now his hands caged her down in between.

A moment passes and their soft chuckles hang in the room, the sound of her voice making the lamplight more golden and the fires burn warmer. “Thank you.” he whispers.

“Huh? For lifting the couch? It’s no big deal,” she mutters, eyes darting away.

“No, not just that,” he lifts his hand to push back a strand of stray hair falling over her eyes and her eyelashes flutter, the way it brushes against his touch sends a wave of warmth over him that would rival a summer’s day. “For getting me back on my feet, helping me find a place,” he guides her to sit back up, “Here I am trying to be independent, but things just seem to go better when it's with you.” 

Marinette shakes her head. “It's what very good friends do for each other, right?”

There’s that tug in his chest again that comes up all too often now, and just like the stinging pain of his over-exerted legs, he tries to push it away. “Yeah. That’s what they do.” 

She moves an inch backwards, and his hands wrap around her waist, unthinking. “Wait, where are you going?”

“ _I_ might have slept here often because it's way closer to the uni, but _you_ might have forgotten I don’t _actually_ live here,” Marinette chuckles, “Got to get back to my own place.”

Adrien hums, pressing his forehead into the crook of Marinette’s neck. He plays with the hem of her sweater, slightly untangling wisps of loose thread. “Do you have to?”

Laughter rumbles in her chest. “Are you always this persuasive?”

“Don’t go,” he says, clinging onto Marinette’s waist. “Stay. I don’t think the snowstorm won’t be passing soon.”

She pauses, and Adrien has the wild thought to beg on his knees. But eventually, she mutters, “Just tonight?” 

And it leaves his mouth before he can even think about it. “Every night,” he suggests.

Marinette draws back to face him, eyes blinking in disbelief until she finally picks up his words, “Are you asking me to move in with you?” For a second she looks hopeful, then a frown marrs her sweet features. “But aren’t there a lot of people already competing for the other room?”

Adrien’s smile seeps out of his lips and his shoulders lift into a subtle shrug. “It’s not going to be much of a competition when it comes to you.”

“You’ve already lost the moment you thought of competing against me in a drinking game,” she laughs haughtily, reaching out for the first card. But as soon as her eyes set on it, a low whistle comes out of her lips. “When the box said it was based on the YouTube show, I didn’t know it was going to be so literal.”

“Why, what does it say?” Adrien asks, grabbing for the card.

She quickly moves to dodge him, leaning back on her side of the seat. “Put back your paws, this is my card. Anyway, I’m pretty sure they took this from the one where exes play this, all down to the last word.” 

“Are you saying I got scammed by flimsy pieces of paper and plagiarized words?”

“You said that, not me.”

Adrien groans. “This won’t work. I mean, we’re not exes. We haven’t dated.” 

_Or even dating._ The mere thought of it makes the words blurt straight out of her mouth. “Am I a better partner than who you’re currently with?” 

“What?”

“I’m reading it off the paper. We can still play this,” she waves the card teasingly, “Or are you backing out?”

“Alright,” Adrien’s lips turn upwards, and he eases himself more comfortably into the couch. “I’m not currently with anyone but yes, definitely yes.” He grins. “I couldn't ask for a better partner.”

There’s heat rising up from her cheeks and she coughs, fumbling as she grabs for the next card to hide her blush. But as soon as she reads it, the entire act fails, as her face turns an even deeper shade of red. “D-Do you still think about me even when I’m not around?” She nods. “Oh yeah. Sure. Yes.”

His smile widens. “That question was for me, bugaboo.”

“Ah, crap.” Marinette wails, sending the other into a laughing fit. “Okay, but most of the time I think about why you don’t do your chores on schedule and come late back home…” _And now that I know why, I can’t think of anything else._

Before she could melt into a puddle of her thoughts, he comes to her rescue, quipping, “Well, as for my answer: I do think of you. A lot. All the time.” 

So much for rescuing.

Adrien swiftly takes the next card, and upon glancing, he bellows a full laugh, startling her. “It says to dare you to take a body shot off me. Two shots to get out of it.” He squints, reading closer. “Or, I can do it on you.”

Marinette chuckles, reaching for the bottle. “Bottoms up then.”

“That’s fair,” he concedes, pushing his glass over to her, “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll take a shot with you. How’s that?”

“Fine with me,” she grins, pouring each of them a drink. “Though I’m lowkey convinced you just made up the last one.”

“Please, Mari,” he snorts, “If we got into that, things could take a dangerous turn.”

The bottle in her hand stutters for a second. “How so?”

He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow pointedly at her. “You’re ticklish there. It would spill as soon as the glass sits on it. Dangerous for the couch, you know.”

Her hand moves on its own accord and she takes the shot immediately, flushing down the thoughts that came along with it. “Yeah. You’re right.” For some reason, her throat still feels dry. “That would be dangerous.”

_**One year ago** _

“That _is_ dangerous, princess,” he says, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “No one should go out in this weather.”

She rolls her eyes. “Move, Chat Noir. I can handle some snow.”

Marinette tightens her scarf and adjusts her coat, and that would’ve been fine by him, if only she wasn’t also planning to walk with three full rolls of fabric twice her height in the middle of a snowstorm. He watches her stack the rolls and tie them up with a rope, finishing with a nice bow. “Looks sturdy right? And very fitting for the season,” she says, shooting him an appeasing grin.

“I’m still not letting you get out of there.”

“I’m still not letting you stop me.”

He whips out his baton, extending it to block her way. “Tough luck, only Ladybug can call the shots for me. And she says I’m on patrol duty, to watch out for danger," he pointedly looks at her, "watching out for those who plan on becoming a human popsicle.” 

“Pretty sure Ladybug didn’t tell you to come here though,” she mutters. “And I think she would understand my reasons, I’m running on a tight deadline to finish three wedding dresses for a show and I need to bring these in for measurements as soon as possible.” Her lips press into a thin line. “The event is in June.”

He winces inwardly, familiar with the industry and knowing all too well that she’d have to pray for a miracle to make it in time. “Why did it take you this long to bring it over? You could’ve asked someone to help you carry it.”

“I _did._ My roommate. But I have no idea where he is.” She whips out of her phone. “Not even answering my calls.”

The baton almost falls out of his grip. “Uh.. maybe he forgot. Something came up and had to fill in for a friend? Maybe something like that. Probably didn’t mean to forget. I’m sure he’ll try making it up to you next time.” _And maybe for the rest of his life._

“Well, I hope he’s alright in this cold.” Marinette bends down to grab the fabric. “Do me a favor chaton, if you see a blond with dreamy green eyes, who’s good-looking and possibly sporting a blue scarf, give him a good whack on the head for me.”

“You think he’s good-looking?”

“That’s all you got from what I said?”

He flashes her an impish grin. “I can’t promise you to give him a whack on the head, but I can promise that you’ll get to bring these fabric rolls on time,” he says, coming forward.

“What are you– _ah!_ ” He sweeps an arm under her legs and holds the other across her back, and now the side of her head is pressed closely against his chest. Marinette quickly wraps her arms tightly around the rolls of cloth to keep it from falling. “What do you think you are doing, Chat?” she hisses, her warm breath prickling his neck.

“I’m filling up your roommate’s spot so you don’t murder him,” he replies in good humor, with half a prayer that she really wouldn’t. He holds her tighter. “Cut him some slack, okay?”

“Okay,” Marinette smiles, then presses her lips against his cheek. “And thank you, Chat Noir. For helping me. For being a great hero,” she murmurs, “For being a great... friend.”

The sensation from her lips still rolls underneath his skin, and if he hadn’t been holding her right now, he thinks his limbs might have given out. “Um… so, can you do me a favor, princess, and open my front pocket and get a purple-colored cheese in there?”

He hears Marinette draw a long breath. “Chat, you can’t use your power up for just these kinds of stuff,” she looks at him pointedly. “If my roommate’s not getting a whack in the head, you probably will, once Ladybug finds out you’re using Astro Chat for fabric delivery. They’re for important things, _chaton._ ”

The superhero shrugs. “Well, _you_ are important to me.”

He thinks he might’ve glimpsed a tinge of pink on her cheeks, but with the rolls of cloth blocking his view, he couldn’t be too sure. Marinette proceeds to reach for his pocket, and it doesn’t take a few seconds before he has to take a deep gulp. “Mari.. Marinette, your hand is going too low,” he says with bated breath. 

“I-I’m sorry! I can’t really see where my h-hand is going,” she stammers, voice rising a little higher with each word.

At some point, the most excruciating seconds of his life finally pass as her hand finally stops wandering aimlessly along his chest, managing to get the treat and now holding it to his mouth. The cat stares at it with newfound interest and dread, the idea of eating from her hand sending his thoughts haywire.

“Well? Aren’t you going to eat it?” she chides. “Or is this where I say, ‘Cat got your tongue’?” 

Honestly, he would’ve liked to recount that he had something really smart to say. Or that he thought it would make a good joke. But in that moment, his nerves and feelings got the best of him. And he regrets nothing.

“Would _you_ like the cat to get _your_ tongue?”

“My _what—_ ”

His mouth moves in to quickly take a bite of the cheese, swallowing down the thoughts that came along with it. “Uh, sorry. I think I just got carried away. You know, me, you, the bridal style carry, the wedding dresses, and there’s even a ring in tow,” he rambles on, moving out into the open to take off. “Now all you have to do is say yes and I’ll sweep you off your feet forever. Ha-ha. What do you say?” 

He hears a giggle escape her lips, and he adds quickly, “Don’t answer that. It was all in good humor, but don’t say ‘no’ out loud so I can keep my dignity intact, princess.”

Chat holds Marinette closer for good measure before they leave, but then the words that come out of her mouth make him lose his step, and perhaps his sanity for the entire day. 

“What makes you think I’ll say no?”

“No. No way you’re going to answer this,” Marinette clicks her tongue, glancing back and forth between the card and his face. She could see his face starting to burn red and she could feel her own cheeks heating up as well. Apparently the rules only instructed to take a sip, but not _exactly_ how much one can sip, and their interpretation of the whole thing might have been lost somewhere between the first and fourth shot. 

“Yeah? What does it say?” Adrien cocks his head in interest, his hand stopping in the middle of swirling the drink in his glass.

“Trust me. I know how this one goes,” she presses.

“I do, but I still want to hear it,” he crosses his arms. “Rules are rules.”

She decides to blame it all on the liquor. “Alright,” she clears her throat. “Do you think I’ll make a good wife for my future husband?”

Adrien tilts his head. “Definitely,” he says simply. Marinette flicks the card at him. “What? I want you to be mine.”

Marinette stares at the shot glass, circling her finger around the rim and shaking her head. The buzzing in her head better be from the alcohol. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I _do_ know what I’m saying,” he sets down his glass and sighs. “Do you?”

She moves her eyes to look out the window pane, watching nightfall come closer as the sunlight fades away. The storm rages on outside, as if pent up divine rage, flurries of white cascading from clouds of ash-like frost. Marinette reaches for her glass and takes a sip, wrapping her arms tighter around herself, and tucking her chin downward into her sweater.

Eyes trained on her, the other seemed as though he wanted to say something but in the end he hesitates, picking up the next card instead. “This is a bit of a free pass, since it doesn’t really apply to us.” Adrien continues, “How long did it take you to get over me and what did you do to get yourself over it?” The way he reads makes it seem as if he’s expecting her to play along.

 _If this is a game_ – she thinks as she grabs the bottle and pours herself a shot – _then might as well get the most of it._

“Why not?” Adrien asks in disbelief.

As soon as she fills her glass to the brim, she raises it up. “Cheers.”

The blond straightens up. “How can you not answer this?”

Marinette shakes her head. “The rules say truth or drink, Adrien. I chose to drink.” He raises his hands in defeat, allowing her to reach for the next card. She snorts. “Well, I think this doesn’t apply to us either. Did you ever cheat on me and _if you did_ , why?”

Adrien pauses, and it’s enough for her to throw the card in his face. 

“You did not!”

He shakes his head quickly, “I wouldn’t call it cheating.”

“Then is that a no?” she challenges. “Or a half-assed yes?”

Adrien presses on. “It's not what you think it is!”

_**One month ago** _

“Is this what I think it is,” Ladybug arches an eyebrow, “The _Adrien Agreste_ asking me for a dance?” 

Adrien lets out a light chuckle. She looks breathtaking as usual, albeit under a mask that he might never uncover. They’re at a charity ball, languishing in the incoming festivities of the season of abundant presents and snow, and he only hopes that inviting Paris’ rich and famous could fare better than best. And perhaps his luck could fare better as well.

“He sure is,” holding out his hand, “If the lady would be willing.”

The heroine's stupor fades as she blushes a shade that matches her suit, and even after all these years, it still comes across as endearing. “I’m not that good of a dancer, I’m afraid,” her hand hovers over his in hesitation. “I’ve only danced with one person in my life, and he was probably just too nice to say I’m a terrible partner.”

The blond watches her nervously bite her lip, and it’s enough for him to take her hand instead of something else more inviting and sweet.

“Adrien... fair warning,” she mumbles on the way to the dancefloor, “your toes might not make it out alive after this.”

“If it’s worth mentioning, you sound like someone I know,” he pulls her closer to him, “and she turned out to be the best partner I ever had.”

Ladybug’s cheeks are suddenly kissed pink like a spring rose, the blooming colour so adorable against her freckled skin that it reminds him of someone who made his thoughts turn rose red. She looks away to stare far into the door, seemingly deliberating bolting through it. Or perhaps waiting for someone to come through it.

“Looking for someone?” 

“Huh?” she blinks back into her senses, shaking her head “It’s nothing. I just thought that perhaps Chat would suddenly come here,” she shrugs. “He said he couldn’t go this time around, but I can’t help but hope he would be here with me. We’re kind of a package deal, you know.” The red-clad hero throws him a coquettish grin before adding, “But don’t tell him that. That cat probably won’t shut up about it for days if he finds out.”

Before the music begins to play, Adrien couldn’t help but burst into giggles for a moment. “He does seem like the type to do that.”

To say that it is as if they’re going through the same old song and dance would be an overstatement – as one hand finds its way to her lower back and the other entwines with her fingers – the music starts in a slow, familiar tune.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, keeping his hand splayed on her back while the other clasps hers like he never wants to let it go. “Just follow my lead.”

“Hard to do that when all I’m focusing on is potentially stepping on your foot or tripping,” she replies. Adrien let out a soft laugh as the superhero clears her throat and straightens her posture again, leaning a bit closer to him.

“Don’t think about it,” he whispers against her ear. 

“I can barely think when I feel you breathing against my skin,” she mumbles. Ladybug’s eyes widen at the sudden realization and drops her head in embarrassment. “I... can’t believe I said that out loud.”

A laugh is shared between them before her gaze moves from his face, her feet beginning to try and follow his lead. The music shifts to a deeper, lower tune, the beats turning into a melody along the cadence of their steps, its harmonies resonating all around. He hums the sound in her ear, and it turns into words, a string of sweet nothings as he loses himself in it.

“Look at me,” Adrien whispers gently. “Trust me to lead.”

The music twirls around them, lifting away gravity. Adrien couldn't remember how many times she had squished his foot under her own. Because he really didn’t care. He watched as her hair spun out and bounced more with each move and beat, her eyes sparkling against the lights that made everything golden and sweet. And really, it was enough. 

“See what happens when you trust me?” Adrien asks indulgently, as the song ends and their feet take them further away from the crowd.

“I guess I should trust you more often then, hm?” she questions back, and Adrien watches the raven-haired heroine take her bottom lip between her teeth as she looks over his face. His eyes couldn’t help linger on her lips for a moment too long.

“It goes both ways,” he takes her hand and presses his lips against her fingers. “I trusted that you would do great. You always do.”

It’s a slip of the tongue, a forbidden act, but her thoughts must've been like his, muddled and spinning. Her hand guides him to the corner in the shadows, and her voice lowers into a whisper.

“Do you trust me?” 

Like a moth to a flame, he could feel himself moving closer to her, until the distance in between is just the sound of shallow breaths.

“I do.”

Adrien’s breath catches in his throat as he meets Ladybug’s eyes — glazed over and swimming with emotions that he didn’t have the time to decipher. He almost thinks that he’s imagining her eyes flickering down to his lips. But not a moment later, there are lips pressed against his own and he knows that he can’t possibly be imagining that. 

It all ends too soon as she pulls back. “I… I’m sorry, Adrien, I-I wasn’t thinki—”

The words are forgotten as he pulls her in and kisses the words tumbling out of her mouth.

It’s like kissing fire, he would liken it, as sparks burst uncontrollably as soon as their lips meet. It didn't make sense, this situation, and yet he’s diving in to burn in it. It only takes a moment as he drinks in the heat of her mouth and nips at her bottom lip, causing her hands to fly desperately to the nape of his neck, rising to her toes so she can kiss him more thoroughly. The touch sears into his skin, his hands moving to grip her hips, pulling her close to his chest. And when she gasps at the action, he realizes he’s not the only one burning, and he takes the open-mouthed opportunity to let his tongue slip to run along her own. 

Neither could stop themselves to speak or ask questions or stop themselves. Adrien couldn’t form a thought past _want, need,_ and _take_. It was all he ever wanted, to lace his hands in her raven-haired locks, to drown in her bluebell gaze. 

_Marinette, Marinette, Marinette._

He pulls away, his own lips swollen, to take a look at her. Ladybug looks up at him like she’s amazed, without a trace of rejection, and it only drives Adrien crazier than before. But before he could lose himself again, to breathe her in deeper, his heart had finally spoken for itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, backing away. “I can’t do this.”

She can’t do this. 

As soon as the question leaves Adrien’s mouth, the words seem to run dry in her mouth. It’s every memory she’s ever pushed to the back of her mind, knowing that night was not one of her proudest moments. Adrien doesn’t look too excited to find out either. The teasing smile on his face is gone and he lets the card fall to his lap, watching it.

Adrien says it again. “Do you regret our relationship?” He presses even further. “Do you regret us?”

She knows it's just a game, questions unintended for her to answer. And the irony is not lost on her. 

“After it happened, things became so weird, here at home, at patrol. And I didn’t know why. Why you didn’t return the ‘pound it’, why you kept locking yourself in the room when I got home,” she recalls, gripping the glass tightly. “All I knew is I was losing something, and I didn’t know how to get it back.” _I was losing you._

Adrien tips his head, eyes glassy, watching her as she drains the glass to the last drop. 

The room remains silent for a while, both of them contemplating the tortuous relationship they thought they could simply dance around. It doesn’t take long for Adrien to break the quiet, saying, “It’s your turn. To ask me.”

She picks up a card, and her heart starts racing as soon as she reads it. She crumples it in her fist and motions at the bottle. “Take a shot. You’re not gonna want this.” 

Adrien frowns at her. “What does it say now?”

“Just please, take a shot,” she pleads.

He holds his hand out, asking for the paper. Marinette stares at her balled up fist and sets it on the table. When Adrien finally opens it to see for himself, he lets out a chuckle. 

“Of all rotten luck,” he says blankly, then proceeds to read it out. “Is there any secret that you wished you never knew about the other?”

When Adrien looks back at Marinette, she’s already filling up his glass. “Don’t even think twice.”

She hands the glass to him and Adrien takes it in his hand, swirling the contents of the glass. He knits his brows at her and asks, “Why do you keep insisting I can’t answer these questions? Is that how you think of me? Of _us_?”

Marinette takes a deep breath and looks at him. “I don’t know what to think anymore."

_**One week ago** _

He doesn’t even need to think about it.

The sound booms mightier than thunder, a fierce crackling, a warning of the danger to come. Chat Noir looks up, feline eyes widening in horror. Almost in slow-motion, the snow tumbles its way down to the buildings, and his view is nothing but a sheet of white. He’s as frozen as the snow below. Before he can even make a conscious choice to move, the snow is already accelerating faster than a high-speed train. 

He wants to say that it had been an oversight, but he knew they hadn’t been in sync for weeks. And it was bound to happen sooner or later. But not like this, not this way. Not against a sentimonster born from Stormy Weather’s agitation in failing to predict the right weather, bringing forth a sinister cloud that covered the Parisian skies — dropping explosive freaks of weather from all sides — there’s a tumultuous rain by the Trocadéro, a raging twister along Champs-Élysées, and a severe snowstorm at a place he calls home.

The hero’s brain numbs, his blood runs cold, his heart stops. 

In his mind’s view, she’s dozing on her desk, face streaked with graphite and hair twined with threads, all too unaware of the horrors of the snow that would cave in and freeze her to death.

“I have to go, m’lady,” he calls out to Ladybug, unable to see the expression in her eyes against the raging winter. He dashes straight to the building, covered in a thick blanket of white, and he doesn’t hesitate to call on his powers to blast through the heavy lumps of snow that block his way.

It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t want to talk to him and that he doesn’t know why; but what does matter is that he knows one thing: she is someone he can’t afford to lose. Not now. Not ever. He’s done a lot of things that he’d have to make up to her, and would love to, would make amends with his entire life if she would let him.

“Marinette?” he shouts across the snow-covered living room, dimly lit, the couch barely decipherable from the white sheet blown in from the windows, he moves it if she’s somewhere buried under. “Marinette, where are you?” he pleads, fear and frost slowly crawling to his chest. He can’t be too late. The black cat moves to her room, and it only feels desolate and cold. His voice breaks, “Mari, please, please, tell me you’re still here,” he calls out into the void.

“Adrien?” a voice calls out back from the living room, saying it over and over like a chant to will him out. “Adrien, where are you?” her voice begs, seemingly between alarm and choked sobs. “Please, please tell me if you’re still here.”

The tone of her voice nearly breaks his heart. “Marinette? Is that you?” he asks, moving against the pile of snow that seemed to never end. He weaves himself out, following the sound of her voice to find his way back to her.

“Adrien? Is that you?”

As soon as he spots the faintest hint of raven-haired locks, he dashes to her in a blur, holding her in his arms, and the response as she wraps her arms arounds him brings back the warmth he thought he’d lost forever. 

“I thought you got buried in the storm,” she sniffs, her head resting on the crook of his neck. “I should’ve warned you and moved you somewhere safe.”

“I thought you got buried, I know you’re bad with the cold,” he murmurs against her hair, pressing a faint brush of his lips on the top of her head. “I was planning to do the same thing. How did you...” As they draw back from the embrace, the words that they needed to speak die off, buried deep back in their throats.

The words lodged in the back of her throat finally break past when he says the words she needed to hear.

“I don’t regret finding out, Marinette. Though I’m not the same person I was when we were younger, who wanted it more than anything. I wanted Ladybug to be happy, even when I had to accept that she was in love with someone else.” He takes a deep breath. “It took me years to realize that I had long been in love with you, and no one else. But I couldn’t act on it, when I thought you only saw me as a friend. The way you acted around me with the mask was so… different, that I thought you couldn’t possibly see Adrien the same way.” He searches her eyes, and she can no longer look away. “I do have to apologize for one thing, I know my reaction last week wasn’t exactly… good, wasn’t it?

There’s a pang in her heart. “You stood here, in this room, and for a while the only word that came out was: _impossible._ ” She tries to keep her voice steady. “What else was I supposed to think from that?”

“You didn’t exactly give the best reaction either, you just looked at me and said ‘ _Let’s finish off the sentimonster’_.” 

Marinette winces. “I couldn’t find the words to say. I couldn’t believe it myself. I tried to get over you for so long, but it was so hard. It was so hard when my feelings grew stronger for Chat. It was harder when you made me fall in love with you everyday.” She purses her lips. “It didn’t help when you started to act like it was all fine again, and you even.. you even…”

“Started flirting more with you? Professed my love for you everyday? Stole cheek ki-”

“Yes.” she cuts him off, the heat in her chest rolling off in waves.

A smile slowly seeps out of Adrien’s lips, and he takes a card, glancing back and forth from her face and the card, as if debating against it. Marinette couldn’t help but brace herself for what’s about to hit her. He turns the card face down. 

He stays quiet for a while and Marinette cocks a brow at him. Ultimately, he eyes the nearly half-empty bottle and decides to pour himself a drink, watching his tiny glass fill up to the line. Then he drinks it up, moving to take the bottle and glasses away from them, placing them on the table instead. Adrien plops back on the sofa, but this time their distance seems a bit closer. _Too close._

“Why did you take the drinks away?” 

“You’re not going to take one for this,” Adrien drawls, his eyes boring straight into her, “You already skipped past two questions in a row.”

She swallows thickly. “What did the card say?”

Adrien hums, pressing his forehead into the crook of Marinette’s neck. He plays with the hem of her sweater, slightly untangling wisps of loose thread. It’s a familiar gesture, and she already knows she won’t be able to refuse. “It’s a free card,” he mumbles. “I can ask anything I want to.”

The moment she turns to glance at the card, her eyes linger on it for a while. She takes in a deep breath. “Then ask.”

He pulls back to face her, and his breath comes out like wisps in the cold. “Back then I couldn’t understand, but now I feel that I’m getting closer to the truth.” Adrien softly caresses her cheek, and she lets herself lean into his touch. 

“Tell me, Marinette.” He presses his forehead against hers. “The other boy, is it me?"

There’s something about the way he says it. The way his lips move. The way his eyes gaze at her. The way he looks at her, as if she hung the moon and stars. The way there’s a warm glow when he draws near. Even in this snowstorm, he was a ray of sunshine, and she was a sunburn.

“Yes,” she breathes into a whisper. She finally pours it out, breath bristling against his lips. “It’s always been you.”

Marinette knows this isn’t their first kiss. But it’s somewhat different when Adrien kisses her this time. Perhaps it’s because of the way he’s holding her, an arm around her waist and a hand resting at the back of her head. It feels more intimate, honest and real.

There’s a nervousness building up in her, unsure, the reality of the situation not at all lost on her as her hands curl into Adrien’s sweater tightly, bracing herself for each kiss. He must’ve sensed her unease, because within moments he’s got his hands on her skin; the touch soft, gentle, as palms settle on the curve of her waist — and Marinette tries not to dwell on how the contact makes her feel small in the most pleasant way. Adrien’s pressing kisses onto her neck, feather-light and brief, and she feels the tension seeping slowly out of her frame; growing lax enough to comply almost straight away as he lifts her over to his lap.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” Marinette hears, and she almost thinks it came from her own mouth. “That you’re real. That you love… _me_.” 

The soft moan that escapes her doesn’t go unheard when his tongue slips into her mouth. She feels him smile against her lips and her skin burns hot. Marinette squirms in Adrien’s hold when she feels his hand playing with the hem of her sweater before slowly inching up under it. The press of his fingers on her skin is grounding and she lets out a content breath.

“Why would you think this isn’t real,” she murmurs, “is this a thing that happens in your dreams?”

He traces a hand on her jaw, drawing her chin upwards, letting his thumb rest on the seam of her lips; soon parting them wide enough to press the pad flat against her tongue and Adrien whispers, “It’s better than my dreams.”

It’s all a blur from there. One second she’s arching off of the couch, lips keen against Adrien’s; head falling back to bare more of her neck as Adrien sucks marks onto the skin in the next. Marinette’s eyes slips shut somewhere in between gasps and hurried presses of the lips, and by the time they reopen, she’s somehow maneuvered into straddling him — and his gaze is focused on looking up at her. She flushes at the attention, mouth parting in an effort to tell the other to stop staring, but Adrien chooses that moment to move his leg between her thighs and all the words die in her throat.

“Adrien,” is the only thing she can say as her hand finds its way to clasp onto his golden strands, and he continues to press shallowly into the heat of Marinette’s mouth; the movement drawing a muffled keen as she mirrors his pace — fingers wandering down to his chest.

“Princess,” he groans as he grinds down, “your hand is going too low.” 

Her incoherent reply slips from the her lips as Adrien buries his face in her neck; groans muffled against the skin and hips canting upwards — and it doesn’t take long, in between Adrien’s languid pace and the mouth fitting against her neck, for Marinette to lose all traces of coherence.

 _It’s a little too much_ , she thinks, a little too much yet somehow not enough — the weight of him and the taste of him clouding her thoughts and making it far too difficult to pay attention to anything else even as he draws more kisses; and Marinette feels herself flushing at the reminder that she had gotten a little too drunk at the contact, flushing harder as her fingers cling on to his back.

Adrien’s hands are warm as they press into her thighs, slow, curling motions pulling soft noises out of her mouth that make the cold non-existent; and the slight burn of the marks on her throat as he latches back on them makes Marinette’s hips grind against the couch. She grips at the leather, previously muffled keens pitching higher at his encouragement. There’s heat flooding her frame, prompted by the friction of the sweaters and the alcohol; pace stuttering as they shift between kisses and wandering touches — and all it takes is two, three cants for her voice to reach the recesses of the room; mouth parting with stuttered breaths.

“Marinette,” Adrien says, voice ringing clear as it cuts through the fog that’s quickly beginning to spread across her brain, and she complies; pulling back far enough to meet the other’s gaze. She must have made some sort of noise, she thinks, because something in Adrien’s expression shifts; and then his lips are on hers, soon licking into her mouth — the contact prompting her nails into digging crescents onto his back, one hand soon finding its way underneath his shirt. The floorboards groan as he keens, leaning impossibly closer in an attempt to press his mouth against hers once more; and it’s not as much as a kiss as it is trading breaths and mere brushes of the lips, and as the couch shudders with her she’s unable to utter anything more than breathless little sighs as he guides to her high again — him leaning forward for the briefest traces by her neck as she comes apart.

“You’re going to break and ruin this couch,” he pants as he breaks away, looking down at her with a grin. “which means I win by default.” 

Trust Adrien Agreste to bring up the game in the middle of a heated make-out session.

“Why me? You’re doing all the work here, I barely did anything,” she counters back, trying to hide the humor in her voice. “I’m going to look like a damn chew-toy once this all ends.” 

His eyes gleam at her response. “It’s not over yet?”

“That’s all you got from what I said?”

He leans forward, down to her. “The alcohol might be doing things to my brain. Things get fuzzy, but I think you said something about barely doing anything,” The blond grins, tucking back the stray raven strands that hung over her eyes. “Which I would happily let you oblige, m’lady.” 

“And to think you said you had good tolerance or something. I feel betrayed,” Marinette hums, bringing up her arms around his neck to pull him back to her. “I might as well make an honest man out of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> _what have i done what have i created_
> 
> its the first time ive tried writing every side into one story.. and been definitely a hell of a ride. this fic is special, because in one way or another, there's bits and pieces from the all fics ive written before
> 
> ~~next year i swear im going to write something crack and funny and below 2k words~~


End file.
